


just hold me tight and leave on the light

by Anonymous



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 08:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19128433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There's just something about 3 am when the world's asleep, and you aren't.





	just hold me tight and leave on the light

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a hot minute since I've written anything, so here goes nothing.
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

**2020**

For how expansive these ryokans are, he’s suddenly claustrophobic. The air is stifling. His once breezy yukata now feels restrictive. Maybe if he spreads his legs a little wider. _Okay, bad idea_ . These young Russian skaters are giving him the stink eye. To think that at one point in his life and career people scrambled to have a good look at his crotch. _Oh, how times have changed_. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, attempting casual and cool, but honestly succeeding at neither.

 

He really shouldn’t be listening in.

 

“She’s been waking up in the middle of the night in fits…”

 

But it’s not like they were trying to be discreet.

 

“... brushes it off and then disappears for a couple of hours.” 

 

 **2014**  

Dinner the night before their TEDxYouth talk was as frosty as the November air. She was there, but she wasn’t present - eyes darting between the feature wall with pictures of D-list celebrities who had dined there before them and the doors swinging open and closed as patrons came and went. Her right hand twisting and twisting and twisting the rings on her left middle finger. She was anxious. You didn’t need to be him, 17 years under his belt, to be able to read her energy. There is a polaroid of them from that evening at the top right hand corner of the back wall, her teeth clenched in a tense smile, eyes manic, his hand hovering over her right shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, and their heads tilted away from each other.

 

He gets a text at 3 in the morning and he’s not sure he wants to be in her company. The worst thing about being an extrovert and empathetic at the same time is that he feeds off negative emotions too. But she is her and he is him, so he pulls on an old ratty t-shirt and trudges down the corridor to her room.

 

“I had a nightmare,” she says, tugging on the sleeves of her jumper. And then she’s rambling. She’s fretting and sighing. Apologetic that she’s made him come all this way. Worried that he too hasn’t gotten enough rest.

 

He raises an eyebrow. _Are you going to invite me in?_

 

She presses her lips together, nods frantically, and steps aside to let him through. They’ve been here before. This time her bed is turned down at least, and the lounger has 3 sets of clothes laid out neatly with shoes to match. He crawls under the covers and pats the empty space next to him. She’s still standing, chewing the corner of her bottom lip.

 

“Sorry I made dinner so uncomfortable.” She whispers, not wanting to disrupt the quiet that has now fallen over the room. The soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table makes her look almost childlike. _Huh._ He hasn’t seen her as a child for years now.

 

“I know you’ve been stressed out about tomorrow, T.” He folds her into his arms, the cold tip of her nose between his clavicles. She inhales for 4, holds for 7, exhales for 8, and slowly falls asleep to the feeling of his palm running up and down her back.

 

**2020**

There is a hum of disapproval and concern from one of them.

 

“She has a lot on her plate, and she just keeps going…”

 

Yes, he’s aware. Her sponsorships, her postgraduate education, her new athleisure line, their third annual tour, her estranged father’s ailing health, her sister’s wedding. Two years post-Olympics and Tessa Virtue is still going.

 

“God, I love her, but she needs to learn to delegate.” A chuckle of endearment.

 

“I wonder if she gets the support she should be getting.”

 

And there it is. He’s pretty sure they know that he’s sitting _right there_. He wants to get defensive - they’re colleagues and family friends. They talk shop, talk family, over _at most_ a glass of wine over dinner and then it’s see you tomorrow, or next week, or a month. They haven’t been “best friends” in almost two years. Doesn’t she have Midori, Liz, and Chelsea for that? What self-respecting adult uses the term “best friends” anyway?

 

_God, why are there so many people in this fucking room?_

 

He starts chewing on his thumbnail. There is a group of skaters huddled in the corner of the common area, a giant jenga set teetering on its last leg. Their laughs drown out the rest of the conversation and he strains to listen in. He picks up the tail end of it all - her hands are full, and yet she still keeps on giving. She sent one of them a printable spreadsheet that she’s using to help plan her sister’s wedding, with a separate folder of her own notes. Yes, her sister hired a professional, she’s just making sure that they’re doing their jobs correctly. Checks and balances.

 

He groans internally. Why does she have to be so perfect all the time? _God, she’s so perfect._ He mentally slaps his wrist. He’s trying this new thing - not putting anyone on a pedestal. He had always put her on a pedestal, until he hadn’t. He had struggled with that friendship after. In hindsight, he doesn’t really understand why. She had always been generous with her affection, with her time. Nothing changed - she had still given all of herself to him when he needed her the most. And if that isn’t the mark of a “best friend” he’s not sure what is.

 

Growing up away from home made him an expert at maintaining friendships over the airwaves. In real life? Not so much. Every time he was home he struggled to navigate his friendships in a “normal” and healthy way. His mother broached the subject over breakfast one morning. Owen had a broken arm from a rough game of hockey and they hadn’t seen each other in 3 days.

 

“Scottie, remember when you had your tonsils taken out? How you felt when Owen came over with that giant tub of bubblegum ice cream?” He remembers nodding into his Cheerios. He was glad to have his favourite ice cream, he was glad that Owen remembered his favourite ice cream, but most of all he was glad that Owen cared enough to visit. He had been growing bored, restless, and lonely. Owen, like any good friend, knew. “Think about how good something they did made you feel and how doing the same would probably make your friends feel good too.”

 

Groundbreaking. He thought his mother was a genius and a saviour.

 

Until he was older and staring at the back of her head with a frown, the Bible flipped open on the table. _Matthew 7:12_ . _Touché, ma._

 

He drowns out the voices around him in the common room of their picturesque little ryokan in Kobe.

 

He thinks about Tessa’s fingers through his hair. 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018.

 

He thinks about her defiant jaw, her eyes ablaze, her mouth set in a grim line. 1997, 1998, 2002, 2006, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019.

 

He thinks about his hand on her knee, their fingers interlaced. Every year of their lives together.

 

He thinks about her tears, her choked sobs… and he breaks.

 

* * *

 

He sees her silhouette against the sliding paper doors that lead out to the garden with the koi pond. She’s huddled against the cold, humming softly to herself. He thinks about how habitual she is. He also thinks about how scary it is that he knows that.

 

He also knows that she can hear him approaching because her back stiffens and she stops humming. _Is that…_ _You Make Me Feel Like Dancing?_ _Interesting choice._

 

“Can’t sleep?” She has a wistful smile as she nods. She’s not hiding that from him, so he takes it as a win. “Mind if I join you?” They settle into an amicable silence. The rustling in the leaves and the soft rippling of the water lulling them into a snooze. He’s nicked a small blanket from one of the empty rooms, wrapping it around her shoulders. He’s always run hot, and she inches closer to keep warm. In 10 minutes, she’s turned towards him, arms linked, her head resting against the wall. In 20, she’s rested her head on his shoulder, eyes closed.

 

Outside of work, he doesn’t remember being this close to her for a long time. He studies how her eyelashes flutter on the tops of her freckled cheeks, notices the subtle flick in each strand. The muscles in her face are relaxed and she’s pouting slightly as her breath comes out in puffs. He feels a swell of affection and he musters the courage to thread his arm out of her grasp and pull her closer with an arm around her shoulders. She comes willingly and soon the cold tip of her nose is pressed against his neck and he’s transported to simpler times in their friendship. The longing and regret is staggering and he sucks in a shuddering breath.

 

Her left hand is resting in his lap and he picks it up gingerly, as if he hadn't been holding her hand for the past 22 years. He’s refamiliarising himself to the softness of her palm, the criss-crossing lines, and the pillowy tips of her fingers. He rubs his thumb gently across the back of her hand and across her knuckles, checking to see if he’s disrupting her nap. He presses his lips against the back of her hand and presses their palms together. He’s missed this so much.

 

“How did we get here, Tess.”

 

It’s not really a question but she answers anyway.

 

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to be here anymore.”

 

* * *

 

The next night he drags a tatami into the common area, places it in the corner next to the giant jenga set, leans against the wall, and waits.

 

He hears her before he sees her and she’s brought her own blanket today.

 

Like the day before, he pulls her gently against him, this time covering their legs with the blankets.  

 

“How are things, Tess?”

 

He doesn’t push her, just rubs his hand up and down her arm, and waits. He’s never been a particular patient man, but with her he can wait forever.

 

“I’ve been having nightmares.” This time she isn’t rambling, she’s not fretting or sighing. She’s not apologetic. But when she looks up at him, he can tell she’s still worried.

 

“If you want, you can tell me all about them.” He reassures her with his eyes. They spend the next two hours whispering to each other, afraid to break the cocoon they’ve built around themselves. She sleeps through the night and wakes fully rested just after sunrise, under two blankets and the hope of a rekindled friendship.

 

* * *

 

The third night they stumble back to the ryokan in a nice buzz from a mix of sake and boisterous karaoke.

 

She’s still giggly when she plops down next to him on the tatami and his eyes are still a little bit unfocused, hair unruly.

 

“I think we need to lie down today.” And they do. Her against his side. She crinkles her nose and makes a comment about how he smells like alcohol. She doesn’t smell any better. Tonight they swap secrets like friends. Her nose is still against his neck, her left leg hiked on top of his, fingers grasping his tee when she falls into a deep slumber, snoring slightly. He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead, wrapping and unwrapping a strand of her hair around his pointer finger.

 

All their lives she has rarely been up before him. That morning she wakes to his chest, he’s flipped onto his side with one arm pillowing his head, dead to the world. She moves her face so they’re nose-to-nose. She just wanted to be close. He looks so innocent like this, she almost remembers the 9 year-old she met those years ago. God, how he’s grown. How they’ve grown. She hesitates, and then she brushes her fingers through his hair and presses a quick kiss on the tip of his nose before rising to get ready for the day.

 

* * *

 

His phone is vibrating rapidly on the bedside table. A string of texts.

 

_You alone?_

 

_Could use some company._

 

_Not a booty call._

 

He chuckles. _Room 2202._

 

She doesn’t have to knock, he’s already waiting.

 

“I’m so nervous.” His look says _you’re not the one getting married, Tess._

 

“I know, but I want this to be perfect for her.” Of course she does. The sisters have always been close, even more so as they’ve gotten older. He assures her that she’s made her lists, checked all of them twice. Once by the wedding planner, once by her, of course. Maybe one more time to be safe. Tells her they’ve been programmed to adapt if things don’t go as planned. She’s nodding but he’s not sure she’s listening. So he pulls her to bed.

 

“Can I be little spoon tonight?” Yeah, yeah. She gets whatever she wants.

 

He wraps his free arm around her waist and pulls her against his chest. _Okay, Tess, inhale 4, hold 7, exhale 8._

 

The wedding takes off without a hitch. She gives a teary speech and Jordan blubbers through her thank yous. They spend the rest of the night tearing up the dancefloor, he doesn’t keep in _any_ zone. When _You Make Me Feel Like Dancing_ comes on, he can hear her tinkling laughter as she points at him from where she’s dancing next to Danny. In Jordan’s wedding guestbook there’s a polaroid of the two of them, arms around each other’s waists, he’s laughing at something that she’s said, and she’s looking up at him all smuglike that she’s successfully landed a joke.

 

**FUTURE**

It’s a picture of him and a one year-old, slumbering nose-to-nose. Dark unruly hair and a prominent nose to match his, but where his eyes are hazel behind closed lids, the one year-old’s is green, green, green. He has his palm placed protectively on the toddler’s side.

 

The caption says: _Westley & Daddy | Sweetheart, I have always felt safest in your daddy’s arms, on and off the ice. They have been a place of comfort and refuge, they have lifted me, literally and figuratively, when I’ve needed them to, they’ve held me close in both good and dark times, and I always look forward to coming home to them at the end of the day. They are firm but kind, strong but gentle, and I am so glad that these hands will guide and protect you as you navigate life. I couldn’t have asked for a better father for you. I hope you will always feel safe in Daddy’s arms no matter your age, as I have all my life. I just love watching you sleep, but can’t wait for you to wake up so we can experience the world anew through your eyes. I’m sure every parent reading this feels the same! _

 

He finally checks his phone after nailing their dog’s name on the kennel. She’s reading with her legs up on the ottoman, fingers threading through Westley’s hair as he snuggles on his mother’s lap.

 

She watches him as he scrolls through his phone - gleeful when she sees his eyes start to water.

 

“Why the waterworks, darling?” She teases.

 

He looks up at her, clear adoration in his eyes. He drops his phone on the kitchen island, makes his way over, and cups her cheek gently before kissing her softly on the lips. She’s beaming when he pulls away.

 

“I still don’t know how you convinced me to name our kid after a fictional character.”

 

She lets out an unguarded laugh, because of course. She shrugs and fusses with Westley as he’s startled by the commotion.

 

“Can you take Buttercup out for a walk?” She’s being cheeky with him. He can’t complain. He kisses his wife and his son on the cheek and harrumphs as he whistles for the dog. Like he said, she gets whatever she wants.

 

“As you wish.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts, so come talk to me in the comments :)


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